Midnight in Arabia: Heart of a Desert Warrior / The Sheikh's Last Gamble / The Sheikh's Jewel. Trish Morey

a long time, we wash again with the sand from the bottom of the pool.”

      Iris wondered what a long time meant to a small child and smiled. “I bet that makes your skin very soft.”

      Nawar gave her a solemn nod. “Grandmother says so.”

      “And our hair?” She’d found it odd that they didn’t shampoo before coming into the communal pool of mineral waters.

      “We’re supposed to wash it first,” Nawar admitted with a frown.

      Oho, the little one didn’t like washing her hair. “Don’t you want your hair soft like your skin and shiny like silk?”

      “The soap gets in my eyes.” Nawar gave a childish pout. “It stings.”

      “I think I can help you wash your hair without getting soap in your eyes.”

      “Fadwa tries, but she says I move too much,” Nawar replied doubtfully.

      “You seem very good at staying still now.”

      “Thank you.” Nawar gave Iris a guilty look. “I don’t like to wash my hair.”

      “So, perhaps you move more when Fadwa is trying to get it clean than you should, hmmm?”

      “Maybe.”

      Iris nodded. “Well, you will simply have to do better for me, because if I get soap in your eyes it will make me very sad.”

      “I don’t want you to be sad.”

      “Thank you.”

      Iris successfully washed the child’s long dark hair without getting soap or water in her eyes after their soak and then sand scrubbing. Nawar was ecstatic and begged Iris to promise to wash her hair from now on.

      “As long as I am here, I will. All right?” More than that, Iris could not promise.

      They dressed for the party in the bathing caves after drying and brushing their hair. Genevieve had insisted on lending Iris a sheer silk scarf to be worn over her head and around her shoulders in the traditional manner. It matched exactly the heavily embroidered peacock-blue galabia she’d given Iris to wear earlier.

      Walking back to the sheikh’s tent, Iris felt like an Arabian princess.

      “I have not seen that galabia in a long time,” Asad’s grandfather said when Iris and Nawar entered the dwelling. “It was always one of my favorites.”

      “Oh … I shouldn’t have worn it, but Genevieve insisted,” Iris said, feeling awkward.

      “Nonsense.” The old sheikh gave her a rakish smile and Iris could see what had attracted Genevieve all those years ago. “Naturally my wife chose it for you to wear. It is the perfect color to bring out the cream of your skin and that red shine in your hair so uncommon among our people. The other guests will be in awe of the beauty of the women of my house.”

      Iris blushed at the praise.

      “I agree, Grandfather. The peacock galabia is lovely on Iris.” The words were complimentary, but Asad gave his grandmother what couldn’t be mistaken for anything but an admonishing look.

      The older woman returned his gaze, her own serene. “Nawar chose it.”

      Asad’s brow rose. “It is the traditional dress of the women of my house.”

      It had seemed rather a coincidence that the brightly colored trim around the skirt of Nawar’s little party dress was styled after peacock feathers. And Genevieve’s peach silk galabia had peacocks amidst the intricate gold needlework covering the garment. Even Fadwa’s dress had tiny peacock feathers embroidered along the hem.

      Iris’s borrowed galabia was not only the shade of blue in a peacock feather, but had the birds embroidered on either side of the collar with sequins stitched into the tail feathers. More stitching ran around the collar, down the center of the garment and around the hem.

      It was one of the most beautiful things Iris had ever worn.

      Nevertheless, she should probably go change. “I’m not a member of your house. I shouldn’t be wearing this.”

      “You are our guest.” Which seemed to be Asad’s answer to everything. “It is fine.”

      “But—”

      “It is your favorite color.” He reached out and tweaked his daughter’s hair. “Nawar is partial to that shade of blue, as well. It is no wonder she chose this dress.”

      “I like purple best, though,” Nawar said with a smile for her father.

      “I know you do, little jewel.” He met Iris’s gaze then, his own somewhat rueful but unmovable. “It would be an insult to my grandmother to refuse to wear the galabia she offered you.”

      Knowing she wasn’t about to win that particular argument, Iris gave in gracefully and smiled at Genevieve. “Peacocks are my favorite bird. It isn’t just the color. Thank you for letting me wear this beautiful garment.”

      “No thanks are necessary. You must keep it if you like it,” Genevieve said firmly. “I would have given it to Badra long ago, but she preferred Western dress.”

      “Oh, no. I couldn’t take it.” Particularly not a dress that was to have been passed down from Genevieve to the woman who had wed her grandson.

      “But you must. You will offend my wife if you do not,” the old sheikh said with that all-too-familiar arrogance.

      Like grandfather, like grandson. Iris found herself amused instead of annoyed by the overt manipulations. Particularly when she saw the look Asad gave the old sheikh.

      For whatever reason, it appeared he felt like he was being maneuvered just as neatly as she was. That couldn’t help but make it easier for her to accept his grandmother’s generosity.

      Iris found herself grinning and winked at the old man. “We can’t have that, can we? I would be honored to accept such a lovely gift,” she said to Genevieve.

      “Your old college friend is impertinent, Asad. Did you see her wink at this old man?” Hanif asked.

      “I saw,” Asad said with one of his infrequent smiles. “Grandmother will have to keep her eyes open at tonight’s feast.”

      “Oh, you.” Genevieve slapped her grandson’s arm lightly. “Don’t encourage him. He’ll be flirting with the tourists again.”

      “The tourists love me. A desert sheikh of the old ways.” Hanif pointed at himself importantly.

      “I’m sure they do,” Iris said with a smile, letting her gaze slide to Asad.

      She imagined the tourists loved him as well, especially the women. Did he flirt with them like his grandfather? If Asad did, it wouldn’t be innocent fun like with the old man—of that Iris was certain.

      Realizing she really didn’t want to think about Asad flirting with and conducting liaisons with the tourists, or anyone else for that matter, Iris forced all thoughts of the like from her mind.

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      THE feast was far more than a simple dinner, just as Asad had said it would be.

      Platter after platter of food came in from the outdoor kitchens—far more than the ones Iris had helped Genevieve and the cook prepare the other night. The other women in the courtyard had all been cooking as well, but Iris hadn’t known it had been for the feast.

      They ate in the public receiving area of Asad’s tent, the large room filled with his family and guests who Iris learned were all related to him, if distantly.

      Russell, who had been seated at a different table from the immediate family, didn’t seem